A dark and stormy...

Ah... Spring!

The Wattle's in bloom, the scent of Freisias drifting on a mild breeze and the McCartney Rose has more buds than a beer factory; you know, that beer, which smells of yeast and beer and hops, only it's a flower...

Last week, the Bulwer-Lytton winner was announced. It's a competition of "wretched writing", sourced in the paragraph by Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, in his book, Paul Clifford (1830).

The infamous paragraph?

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."

This year's winner is Garrison Spik who wrote: Theirs was a New York love, a checkered taxi ride burning rubber, and like the city their passion was open 24/7, steam rising from their bodies like slick streets exhaling warm, moist, white breath through manhole covers stamped "Forged by DeLaney Bros., Piscataway, N.J."

Dunno... There are some absolute howlers this year. Like the winner of the Detective section:

Mike Hummer had been a private detective so long he could remember Preparation A, his hair reminded everyone of a rat who'd bitten into an electrical cord, but he could still run faster than greased owl snot when he was on a bad guy's trail, and they said his friskings were a lot like getting a vasectomy at Sears.

Or this one, from the Adventure category:

Leopold looked up at the arrow piercing the skin of the dirigible with a sort of wondrous dismay -- the wheezy shriek was just the sort of sound he always imagined a baby moose being beaten with a pair of accordions might make.

My favourite? Runner-up in the Spy category:

The KGB agent known only as the Spider, milk solids oozing from his mouth and nose, surveyed the spreading wound in his abdomen caused by the crushing blow of the low but deadly hassock and begged of his attacker to explain why she gone to the trouble of feeding him tainted milk products before effecting his assassination with such an inferior object as this ottoman, only to hear in his dying moments an escaping Miss Muffet of the MI-5 whisper, "it is my whey."

Go on, go and have a laugh!

Captain's Log

I received a new notification in my e-mail box this morning; one I've been waiting for.

Captain's Log is the new newsletter from Voyager, the science fiction and fantasy imprint of Harper Collins.

It's important because it's focus is on Australian authors then international ones. And added to the site is a blog where peeps can gather information. Aussie author Jennifer Fallon has an interest three part series on Dispelling Myths of Getting Published and on Why Manuscripts Are Rejected. I've got some serious catching up to do.

Maybe I should have checked in sooner...

Three Years....

Well, I missed it - the third anniversary of this blog. It was earlier on this week, Monday, actually.

Geez, three years! And I'm suddenly at a loss for words... or not...

Every now and then, I think of deleting the blog - for a variety of reasons - and then I think I've still got stuff to bitch and moan about. And it's good therapy. These days, you've got to be careful about what you say for fear of being accused of racism or political incorrectness, or ageism, gender bias or any number of things because you don't think like most people feel you should.

But on a blog... ah, well, you can say whatever and be virtually guaranteed of someone out there agreeing or ferociously disagreeing. On either point, a breaking out of common sense debate might just happen.

As a habit, it's fairly innocuous. For a writer, it's good practice. It's also a place I can vent my spleen, whine, cajole, explain, test and otherwise say stuff I don't have another forum for.

Anyway... I'm busy sorting out this plotting thing other writers swear by. Being an organic writer, I've decided, only goes so far for me, so I'm trying for a more disciplined approach before Nano hits; and it's not that far away, either.

It's time to wrestle manuscripts into order and beat characters into submission. That's my new focus for the next year(!).

And just because I can, here are some Engrish (yes, engrish) signs sent to me by my funny as hell sister. Politically incorrect, too.

Words are important

Since I'm still beavering away on stuff, a leedle something my sister sent me to amuse you:

The pastor asked if anyone in the congregation would like to express Praise for answered prayers. A lady stood and walked to the podium. She said:

"I have a Praise. Two months ago, my husband, Jim, had a terrible bicycle accident and his scrotum was completely crushed. The pain was excruciating and the doctors didn't know if they could help him."

You could hear an audible gasp from the men in the congregation as they imagined the pain that poor Jim experienced.

Pat continued, "Jim was unable to hold me or the children and every move caused him terrible pain.We prayed as the doctors performed a delicate operation. They were able to piece together the crushed remnants of Jim's scrotum and wrap wire around it to hold it in place."

Again, the men in the Congregation squirmed uncomfortably as they imagined the horrible surgery performed on Jim. She continued, "Now, Jim is out of the hospital and the doctor's say, with time, his scrotum should recover completely."

All the men sighed with relief. The pastor rose and tentatively asked if anyone else had anything to say. A man rose and walked slowly to the podium. He said, "I'm Jim and I want to tell my wife, the word is sternum."

Neverending story

I've gone through and listed all the characters in both books...

With everyone mentioned, it comes out at 104. It includes the characters-in-passing. You know, the bit players: drivers, dead people, historical people, soldiers, assistants - those who either don't say much or nutin' at all. I don't think I need to put in their life stories.

But I've got character sheets to fill out - lots of 'em - then the time line, the settings, the time periods (and there are a few) and finally, go through the manuscripts scene-by-scene, paragraph-by-paragraph and each sentence. When all that's done, it's another read through with the word colour changes to make sure I've lessened the impact of passive voice, show versus tell, adverbs, name changes, descriptions, action sequences and anything else I can think of.

I have PBWs The Novel Notebook, Holly Lisle's Mugging the Muse and various posts from the Left Behind and Loving It workshops as my able assistants. All it will take is time... oh, and patience. Lots of patience.

I might even get it right this time.

Watch words

The week that was has moved by in a blur.

I dragged out the two Knight Stalker books to read through and discovered that, combined, they totalled over eight hundred pages - double spaced.

Before I began, I changed the colour of words to watch from black to red: that, was, were, have, been, is, are, be, will; you know the list. Changing the colour of watch words is a great way to learn not to use them; you'll see just how red the page can become.

To give you an example, these two books are about 207,000 words. Of those words 8,259 are from the above list. That's one in 25 words that need review, but doesn't include: -ly, not, very, am, up, down. With those words, raise the number to 13,169, or one in fifteen words. And there are others to search for.

I'm sure you can imagine pages speckled with blood red...

Anyway, it's not doom and gloom. (I recall one of the first pieces I wrote for a creative writing unit and it came back with more red than black; I felt so disappointed I nearly left the course - until I saw other student papers that were worse than mine.) By highlighting where you've been lazy - and I admit it; Nano is, after all, about word counts - you can correct, or give deeper thought to the sentence or paragraph.

So now that it's done, I can go back and change stuff, along with back-plotting. That's plotting after you've written 'The End'.

Back plotting should be fun. I got a laugh out of some parts of the books, and a touch of tragedy, horror, and wonder that I'd written it. This is why it's good to not look at your work for weeks, or in this case, months. I can cast a fresh eye over it.

Time to raise those statistics... a lot!

Unsmug

I've put together last year's Nano project Knight Stalker in preparation for editing.

I've also studied and inwardly digested a number of editing techniques; some are similar to my own, and others are something to keep in mind.

Oy, I gotta say I'm appalled by the amount of red words to revise peppering every innocent page. I recall when I wrote this that passive voice and extended sentences didn't matter because I was aiming for a word count total. I also recall how smug I was.

Not doing smug now; stomping all over smug with hob-nailed boots and a bad attitude.

Lesson learned in an ugly, unattractive way. This is going to take time and effort.

When NaNo comes around again, remind me to be more focused on the story and not on how much I can write.

Omega

Yeah, I've been watching the Olly-impics, probably against my will... not anything with China involved though - my little protest - but sport which I don't usually watch, like handball, beach volleyball and the like. The main broadcaster here sticks with the popular sports like swimming. Ack.

Anyway, I finished Omega Games.

It has a lot of familiar territory for those who have read S.L. Viehl's freebies; more chunks that I expected, actually.

However, this story presents its own issues, like the Cherijo/Jarn identity crisis, Duncan's nature and an argument between the two that raises interesting questions. But that's a spoiler.

Overall, we are one step closer to resolution on who Maggie is and what she wants, the immortal issue and the Black Crystal.

Not much else to say because I think this book is a pot-boiler: a book written to bridge the previous to the more important next book.

It's still a good read. If this is a pot-boiler, it's one of the better ones I've read and I'll still buy the next one. This story line has something intriguing about it and I'm guessing 'all will be revealed' soon.

So... what's next on the tbr pile?

Last play

Don't bother me: Omega Games turned up a coupla days early with Gale Force.

Huzzah!!

I'll let you know what I think...

Books to grab

Mmmm.... boooksss!

I've been rummaging around my TBR pile. Then, today the Nexus catalogue turned up from the Galaxy Bookstore.

Being in a rural area, this is a good thing; the local bookstores in town only shelve best sellers/authors, but will order something for you if you're willing to wait up to six weeks. I think 'to hell with that', even the U.S.-based Amazon.com can get books to me faster than that. Much as I'd like to support local businesses, if you cain't git it to me within five werkin' days, tough.

So, there they were: two books I've been hanging out for. Rachel Caine's Gale Force, a Weather Warden book, and our favourite S. L. Viehl's Omega Games, a Stardoc novel. Woo hoo, with a capital WOO!

Both books should be here Friday, or Monday at the latest. I'm glad the sales clerk didn't see me do my happy dance, he would have been embarrassed.

Next week, Eoin Colfer's Artemis Fowl and the Time Paradox comes out.

Sigh. So much for good writing intentions...

Thanks to participants

And so the week long Left Behind and Loving It workshops come to an end.

Thank you to Paperback Writer for hosting the workshops and for the invaluable material; and thanks to:

Cheryl Corbin for pointing out Gender Differences in writing;

Alison Kent for Voices in Your Head;

Belinda Kroll for Everyone Has to Edit;

Emma Wayne Porter for a the insightful information on Self Editing;

Sasha White for the voice workshops;

Su Elder for Astronomy for Writers; and

Shannon Stacey for When Only the Right Word Will Do.

There were a lot of other involved, and I thank them too. This week has been a blast and extremely informative.

Now, all I have to do is apply the lessons learned by using the downloads and stylesheets and keep in mind all those interesting little tidbits while I do so!

Singled Out

Today's topic over at PBW's is voice and style.

It brought to mind working in England. Eh? How does that connect?

Well, one of my jobs was to pack herbs into plastic bags. Being a chatty kind of person, I conversed with the other slaves around my table. During a ten hour shift, you've got to do something to take your mind off the tedium.

Throughout the day, a supervisor kept wandering over, a scowl painted on her pale face. She kept instructing us to keep it down, even though other tables created more laughter. Eventually, she decided to tell us not to talk at all. (Not that I could; people cannot keep it zipped in a crowd, and when spoken too directly, I answered, drawing the supervisor over again.)

At the end of the day, she said I would not be invited back to work. Surprised, I asked her why and she said: you are too noisy, you disrupt the work. You, I hear all day.

How, I wondered, could she hear me over all the others chatting? How did she identify me in the crowd of thirty or so?

Turns out, when I asked how she knew it was me, I had a unique aspect: my accent. I was the only Australian in the room and she identified that accent, zeroed in on it and decided it was too out of tune with the more familiar English and South African accents.

Now you see where it connects: You have to have something different about your writing to stand out and be noticed. The best way to do that is to have something unique.

If you compare your work with others, what stands out as different? Word choice? Plot? Your characters? Have you taken a cliched plot and twisted it? What makes your voice stand out?

Overload

With PBW's Left Behind and Loving It program, the one thing I didn't understand at the time was how many others would be joining in with their own 'courses'.

I've downloaded stylesheets, worldbuilding stuff, editing stuff, self-editing, voices, body language, the list goes on. It makes for interesting reading, but not much time for anything else.

At the moment, I'm 'too busy to write, but I would, ya know, if I had the time...' For once, I'm calling that a legitimate excuse! Time to go absorb more pithy nuggets from the dozen or so authors and editors generous enough to join in.

Out in the dark

I don't often see the unexpected in this quiet little village, but the other night...

Rain. Heavy, cold drops from a darkened winter sky sparkling under orange street lights. Flashes of lightning and the deep, dissatisfied rumble of thunder, though it's miles away.

Will we get more flooding? Will it snow? The bitter air feels like it, but we're at sea level. No snow, though I can... eh? What? No... way!

Across the street, sitting up, washing it's face. Dash a few metres, stop, wash, bound away into the undergrowth. Black tail all a bristle, dark grey body under the orange light. Head, small with pointed ears and front paws smaller than the back. A... squirrel?

I've been to the U.S. and taken photos of the black squirrel - so cute - a red one with tufted ears, sitting in a fir tree in Arizona, and been chastised by a grey one, recently, in England. I know what a squirrel looks like.

But I'm home, in Australia, and a long way from any zoos; a coupla hundred kilometres in fact. So what is a squirrel doing here? I went off to check my Australian mammal book - for when I'm out walking in the bush to identify species - and low, there is a picture of a grey squirrel! Colour me amazed. Escapees, apparently, live in deciduous trees in metropolitan Sydney, but that's about it; they're rare even in Sydney.

I'm guessing the rodents are moving south. While I think they're as cute as can be, they're feral and a problem for native animals.

I'm still shaking my head. What else is out there?

Running

PBW has begun a series of 'how to' for those Left Behind and Loving It.

Interestingly, for me, today's blog is on editing - and I've just finished a five hundred page edit on one of my wips.

Fortunately, Lynn recommends leaving the thing alone for a couple of days after the edit, which I will comply with. But I'll also start on another one using the plan listed.

The problem with editing is that it takes time and is nowhere near as much fun as the writing. It takes practice to get it right and it takes practice to stop worrying about a particular scene, character or chapter. I'd like to know if any other writers tie themselves in knots about it and how to let go...

Other things in the blog is a list of those authors joining in with their own post to help those of us who find something lacking in our own writing. I'm off to check a few of them out.

Moving forward

The five o'clock gong has sounded and it's time to put away imaginary things.

It's all so very frustrating and slow. I've done minor edits on the first four chapters and I'm working through the second (I'll probably finish the eighth chapter tonight).

What I'm not doing is going back. Like writing, once you start you don't stop until it's done. Move forward. While editing, have a notebook handy for, well, notes on things you're unsure about or changes.

Once I've done all the chapters, it will be time to put it all together again and read through. I figure that's when the inner critic will be loud in my ear. I have so-oo got to kill that bitch.

I did find I've used the word 'some' way too much: something, somebody, some. Now that I look at the word, it's weird. (Not like polydactyl, which is cool.)

There's something amiss and I don't know what it is. I can't recall who said it, but he 'skips over the boring bits' and that's what I've done in writing this book. So much has happened in seven chapters, I'm wondering if it's too much. But... I think I need to put in a few more descriptive phrases. Not alot, just a few to bolster the readability. I can't tell editing four chapters at a time and stopping. I'll need to look once it's back together.

It's time for a break and domestic stuff - getting away from the work is always good. It settles the mind to nut out what's wrong and how to fix it. At least in my world it does.

New things

I learned a new word today: polydactyl.

Isn't it cool? Poly... dactyl...

Sounds prehistoric; a new type of dinosaur maybe? Nup. It means having more than the usual digits, like people being born with six fingers or six toes.

I like to learn a new thing every day. Yesterday, it was my first three chapters... um... prologue plus two chapters, aren't as nifty as I thought. What I learned is that just about all my first three chapters aren't as readable as the rest. And I've been torturing myself over it. I can delete the prologue and the rest is 'okay', but once I get into the fourth chapter and beyond, it reads well.

I'll have to find some literature on how to write the first three chapters effectively.

Last week, I realised why I had such a problem with the 'annoyance and inconvenience' law passed for the Catholic World Youth Day: we weren't asked.

Australians, as a whole, will bend over backwards to help out... if asked. If we're not, and assumptions are made, then we get all pissy about it. If the Government had asked us to welcome the pilgrims, we would have done so, like we did for the Olympics. But we weren't; we were told and laws put in place to ensure compliance.

This country was founded by convicts. People who had a natural resistance to authority... that hasn't changed. Not one jot. We made a hero out of the criminal Ned Kelly, after all.

I guess it just shows how blind our current government is to the Aussie way. Too bad the election is still a couple of years away.

I wonder what I'll learn tomorrow? And how can I use my new word? Polydactyl. What new things have you learned today?

Soon, my precious, soon...

Tor have announced a new webpage in conjunction with their standard page.

Tor.com is listed as a magazine and has blogs a community, news and short stories. Go check it out.

Also new is S.L. Viehl's Omega Games - though it's two weeks early - the next in the Stardoc series. I can't complain, but I can't remember if I have it as an automatic send from the Galaxy Bookshop. Guess I'll have to ring up and find out!

Next to toss on my TBR pile is Eoin Colfer's Time Paradox, the next Artemis Fowl book. This anti-hero filled the gap for me between the Harry Potter books and I love the series.

Coming up in the next couple of months, my books other to buy are: Rachel Caine's Gale Force next month and Tess Gerritsen's The Keepsake and David Weber's Worlds of Weber in September. All I have to do is eke out some time to read them.

LB&LI

I'm busily studying my editing books - it's like writing, I think, the more you do, the more you become familiar with the what-to-do's and the what-not-to-do's; and the grammar stuff and structure and stuff.

I have a professional qualification in proofreading and editing, and yet I find myself delving back into the texts - it's probably something to do with I'm okay with other people's work, but lack confidence trying to edit my own. Huh. Gonna have to build that bridge and move over it.

Anyway, Paperback Writer has the schedule up for her Left Behind and Loving It workshops starting next week. I'm pretty sure I'll garner some nuggety ideas on how to move around this particular roadblock.

In the meantime, back to it...

A few amusements

Not much happening around here, so I give you... this:

MARRIAGE

A newlywed couple had only been married for two weeks. The husband, although very much in love, couldn't wait to go out on the town and party with his old buddies.

So, he said to his new wife, 'Honey, I'll be right back.'

'Where are you going, coochy cooh?' asked the wife.

'I'm going to the bar, pretty face. I'm going to have a beer.'

The wife said, 'You want a beer, my love?'

She opened the door to the refrigerator and showed him 25 different kinds of beer brands from 12 different countries: Germany, Holland, Japan, India, etc.

The husband didn't know what to do, and the only thing that he could think of saying was, 'Yes, lolly pop... but at the bar... you know... they have frozen glasses...'

He didn't get to finish the sentence, because the wife interrupted him by saying, 'You want a frozen glass, puppy face?'

She took a huge beer mug out of the freezer, so frozen that she was getting chills just holding it.

The husband, looking a bit pale, said, 'Yes, tootsie roll, but at the Bar they have those hors d'oeuvres that are really delicious... I won't be long, I'll be right back. I promise. OK?'

'You want hors d'oeuvres, poochi pooh?' She opened the oven and took out 5 dishes of different hors d'oeuvres: chicken wings, pigs in blankets, mushroom caps, pork strips, etc.

'But my sweet honey... At the bar... You know... there's swearing, dirty words and all that...'

'You want dirty words, Dickhead? Drink your f***ing beer in your Goddamn frozen mug and eat your motherf***ing snacks, because you are Married now, and you aren't f***ing going anywhere! Got it, Asshole?'

.......and, they lived happily ever after.

* * *

Does anyone remember the Ladybird books from their childhood? I do, so I was amused to find this:

The Ladybird Book of the Policeman. There are other stories here too.

* * *

And one more:

Little Pecker

A five-year-old boy and his grandfather are sitting on the front porch together, when grandpa pulled a beer out of the cooler.

The little boy asked, 'Grandpa, can I have a beer? Grandpa replied 'Can your pecker touch you're ass?'

The little boy answered, 'No Grandpa, it's just a little pecker!'

Grandpa said, 'Then you're not man enough to have a beer.'

A little later Grandpa lit up a cigar. The little boy asked, 'Grandpa, can I have a cigar?'

Once again, Grandpa asked, 'Can your pecker touch you're ass?'

The little boy answered 'no,' again.

Grandpa said, 'Then your not man enough to have a cigar.'

A little later, the boy came out of the house with some cookies and milk.

Grandpa asked, 'Can I have a cookie?'

The boy asked, 'Can your pecker touch you're ass?'

Grandpa replied, 'Hell yeah, my pecker can touch my ass!'

The boy replied, 'Then go fuck yourself! Grandma made these for me.'

Overturned and underwhelmed

Finally, common sense has overcome elitism in that the recent 'annoyance' law has been overturned in the Federal Court.

Two university activists took the NSW Government to court over the law, claiming it was unconstitutional to infringe on a person's right to peace protest.

Of course, in a smug rebuttal, NSW Premier, Morris Iemma said: "Two words have been struck out - the words 'and annoyance'".

And while all this bullshit is going on, a vandal has written Ratzinger Rules on one of our war memorials. The Pope belonged to a paramilitary organisation in Germany during the Second World War.

There's nothing like a religious circus to piss off the natives: Sydney CBD is currently experiencing gridlock as thousands of pilgrims head to Darling Harbour for the opening ceremony. As for ordinary commuters on their way home from work, well, tough shit. It's not as if your every day lives are anywhere near as important as the Bible-thumping, hallelujahing, devoutly-religious, god-botherers good time.

And let's remember, peeps, not to cause any inconvenience to the speshul pilgrims. Gee, only another week of this to go...

Sci-fi

There are some interesting items in SciFi Weekly this... er... week.

Buzz Aldrin has a go at science fiction authors, blaming them for a lack of interest by young people in space. Huh. Bit of a lame argument that, given the quantity of scientists out there who name reading sci-fi as an inspiration.

Marjorie M. Liu has an interview about her new book, Iron Hunt.

I also had a 'cool!' moment as a remake of Survivors is ready for the Teev. I loved this show and still remember parts of it even though I was only a kid when it first aired in the... er... 70s.

There's also lots of stuff on Dark Knight, The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor and other items. But you can go and look for yourself.

Movie Meme

Oooo... meme! This one from Scribblings of a Madman:

This is Entertainment Weekly's list of 100 Classic Movies of the past 25 years. The rules: Bold the movies you've seen, underline or *asterisk* the ones you plan to, strike out the ones you HATE and refuse to watch ever again.

... P.S... for those of you who, like me, didn't know how to strike out something, here's how: <> strike out < / s >

Here's the list:

1. Pulp Fiction (1994)
2. The Lord of the Rings trilogy (2001-03)
3. Titanic (1997)
4. Blue Velvet (1986)
5. Toy Story (1995)
6. Saving Private Ryan (1998)
7. Hannah and Her Sisters (1986)
8. The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
9. Die Hard (1988)
10. Moulin Rouge (2001)
11. This Is Spinal Tap (1984)
12. The Matrix (1999)
13. Goodfellas (1990)
14. Crumb (1995)
15. Edward Scissorhands (1990)
16. Boogie Nights (1997)
17. Jerry Maguire(1996)
18. Do the Right Thing (1989)
19. Casino Royale (2006)
20. The Lion King (1994)
21. Schindler's List (1993)
22. Rushmore (1998)
23. Memento (2001)
24. A Room With a View (1986)
25. Shrek (2001)
26. Hoop Dreams (1994)
27. Aliens (1986)
28. Wings of Desire (1987)
29. The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
30. When Harry Met Sally... (1989)
31. Brokeback Mountain (2005)
32. Fight Club (1999)
33. The Breakfast Club (1985)
34. Fargo (1996)
35. The Incredibles (2004)
36. Spider-Man 2 (2004)
37. Pretty Woman (1990)
38. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)
39. The Sixth Sense (1999)
40. Speed (1994)
41. Dazed and Confused (1993)
42. Clueless (1995)
43. Gladiator (2000)
44. The Player (1992)
45. Rain Man (1988)
46. Children of Men (2006)
47. Men in Black (1997)
48. Scarface (1983)
49. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)
50. The Piano (1993)
51. There Will Be Blood (2007)
52. The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad (1988)
53. The Truman Show (1998)
54. Fatal Attraction (1987)
55. Risky Business (1983)
56. The Lives of Others (2006)
57. There’s Something About Mary (1998)
58. Ghostbusters (1984)
59. L.A. Confidential (1997)
60. Scream (1996)
61. Beverly Hills Cop (1984)
62. sex, lies and videotape (1989)
63. Big (1988)
64. No Country For Old Men (2007)
65. Dirty Dancing (1987)
66. Natural Born Killers (1994)
67. Donnie Brasco (1997)
68. Witness (1985)
69. All About My Mother (1999)
70. Broadcast News (1987)
71. Unforgiven (1992)
72. Thelma & Louise (1991)
73. Office Space (1999)
74. Drugstore Cowboy (1989)
75. Out of Africa (1985)
76. The Departed (2006)
77. Sid and Nancy (1986)
78. Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)
79. Waiting for Guffman (1996)
80. Michael Clayton (2007)
81. Moonstruck (1987)
82. Lost in Translation (2003)
83. Evil Dead 2: Dead by Dawn (1987)
84. Sideways (2004)
85. The 40 Year Old Virgin (2005)
86. Y Tu Mamá También (2002)
87. Swingers (1996)
88. Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (1997)
89. Breaking the Waves (1996)
90. Napoleon Dynamite (2004)
91. Back to the Future (1985)
92. Menace II Society (1993)
93. Ed Wood (1994)
94. Full Metal Jacket (1987)
95. In the Mood for Love (2001)
96. Far From Heaven (2002)
97. Glory (1989)
98. The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999)
99. The Blair Witch Project (1999)
100. South Park: Bigger Longer & Uncut (1999)

Oops. Less than half. A few of my favs made the list, like Aliens, Terminator, Glory and The Incredibles, but there are quite a few missing, too. No X-men, or Armageddon or The Day After Tomorrow. No Kill Bill, Charlie's Angels, Three Kings or Jarhead. Or others I could mention.

Who made this list anyway?

Valor

I can't help myself. I just have to ask: Is this the end for Torin Kerr?

I hope not. I really do. Tanya Huff's Valor's Trial doesn't end in a cliffhanger, that would be fine, but ends... well, there could be more, or it the series could stop. I hate that in a series. I don't want to make my own conclusions. Remember Total Recall by Philip K. Dick? Not the movie, the book! That ending both annoyed and intrigued me. Took me days to settle.

Anyway, it's a great read; and, like Lynn Viehl's Stardoc and Darkyn, David Weber's Honor Harrington and Elizabeth Moon's Paksenarrion, well worth re-reading.

To the book: Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr is returned to her battalion and that battalion is sent into action against the Others. In a flash of light, the battalion and the Others are gone. The Corp believe them dead, the public believe them dead and irritating Katrien reporter Presit a Tur durValintrisy believes them dead; Torin's lover Craig Ryder (who speaks like an Australian) doesn't.

Torin awakes to find herself in an underground prison with other marines, all of whom show no inclination to escape. But Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr isn't going to accept there's no way out and with friends, old and new, she's going to bust out of prison, taking her Marines with her, or die trying. What she doesn't know is that a successful escape may end the centuries-long war.

I like a kick-ass heroine and Tanya Huff's Torin Kerr is just that. In this book, the body count is high but not without reason. And the enemies are hidden: one is the struggle Torin has with herself, against the need for violence the need to give up and the need to get the hell out. The other... would be a spoiler.

There's also a part that's reminiscent of The Chronicles of Riddick - a favourite movie of mine.

The writing is terrific, you can almost feel the hopelessness of the other prisoners, the pointlessness of orders from officers who don't know what else to do, and the frustration of Kerr at those orders. You can feel Kerr's resistance to more violence, too, even when you want her to punish wrong-doers.

But it's not all grit and determination in the face of overwhelming odds, there's humour, longing, fear and mistrust, too. The characters are sympathetic and well written, even the aliens, the world-building is just enough and Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr right out of a Boy's Own.

Which is all why I don't want this series to end too soon. I. Want. MORE! Please?

Bits and pieces

Corporate entities must be desperate.

I was in a major chain store this morning and saw - after rubbing my eyes and checking again - Christmas lights for sale. Yep, a reindeer and sled neon light set.

It couldn't be a post-Christmas sale thing, it's Ju-ly, but I can see people buying them anyway. It just kinda sucks all the joy out shopping pre-season. And yes, some might think, 'ha! Christmas in July!' Or not. Me, I just sneered and moved on.

* * *

And did buy myself some dragons. A nice couple of Knights. They almost look as if they could replace the knights in my Imperial Dragon chess set, except they're the wrong colour.

I also picked up a CD. Will Martin's debut album A New World. He's a New Zealander, but I shan't hold that against him. He does a fabulous version of Over the Hills and Far Away. If you've seen the Sharpe series, you'll know the song. He also sings So Far Away, a song that Amici Forever do on their album Defined, which is, to me, the ultimate soldier's song; well, that's how I hear it.

Hmm... anyway, back to Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr...

Bitey

Bitey weather here today; normally, the temps in the low to mid- teens (Celsius), but today, it barely reached nine degrees. Oh, and the rain. Not a lot, but constant. Overall, one might say a miserable day; not me. As Billy Connelly says 'it's not miserable weather, just different.'

So I fired up the laptop and then left it alone to watch War of the Worlds, yes, Tom Cruises version (he plays a shocked - if initially cowardly - survivor really well, followed by one of my favs, Mr & Mrs Smith. It has all I need: Explosions, sex and misunderstandings.

The delivery man also turned up so I have Tanya Huff's Valor's Trial, the hardback, two weeks early from Amazon and so I don't have to wait a year for the paperback. Whoo-hoo!

The bitter weather is set to continue, but there's nothing like curling up in front of the heater with a good book... except curling up in front of the heater working; yeah, I'll send out the last two tomorrow.

We've also had a change in the wildlife cavorting around the backyard. The blue tongues are hiding, probably because it's cold and they're cold blooded, but I did notice some new, small diggings. I figured it was another rabbit (last year's died under one of the camellias), but... it's not. The droppings are different.

According to my Park Ranger brother, it's a Bandicoot! I don't know what type because they're nocturnal. I shan't be hunting for it either; I like indigenous species living in the backyard. Rabbits are feral.

So... work... or book? Work... or book? No contest really...

Good, bad and definitely ugly

I stumbled across Jim Butcher's Livejournal page today. Yes, I know, I'm supposed to be working on my submissions. I have no excuse. I am not worthy... yadda, yadda, yadda.

Anyway, I've read exactly... one Dresden File book. I did not find it inspiring and I can only vaguely remember it. But, and it's a big one: Jim never gave up and now has a series and the television series. Good for him. And I mean that. Determination to succeed should be rewarded.

I'm sure you can think of a number of authors whom you thought were so-so. Your choice, my choice, no big.

The journal, however, is a testament to good craftmanship. He has a number of posts on how he writes; his own how to that might start a newbie writer off. He has also posted bad reviews, something you don't see very often.

In this age of instant comment, writers - I think - have to be aware of the good and the bad. Not everyone will fall over themselves to read your work, not everyone has a good/bad response to your work. But it does pay to keep in mind what reviewers say about your work.

Jim has posted one in particular dealing with the workings of a gun. Jim got it wrong and the reviewer pointed it out. I imagine it's a mistake Jim won't make again (free dig here) unlike Laurel K. Hamilton who doesn't read reviews at all and wonders why so many people hate her books.

The point is that none of the negativity has Jim throwing up his hands and deciding not to write any more. Writing is a constant learning curve and no one expects to be absolutely perfect on their first go - at least, they shouldn't. Your very best work is the least any editor expects. And while you're going to get bumps and bruises along the way, if you absorb the lessons, there's only one way to go and that's to improve.

Jim's advice doesn't work for me. I'm not that organised and if I used his recommendations, I'd never start a book because I'd be - as they say in the vernacular - over it before it began. That doesn't mean it won't work for others.

I may not appreciate his books, but I do appreciate the help of a published author.

Feel free to ignore the rules

Hmm... it occured to me that it was time again to be submitting.

I'm not as thick-skinned as that guy who submitted his story a thousand times before being accepted for publication. Each rejection stings, though the more I collect, the less I feel the impact.

What isn't quite right for one publication, maybe perfect for the next. The difficulty is finding that outlet.

I've spent a lot of hours using Ralan.com, visiting websites, downloading guidelines. I'm astonished at how many stillcomplain that submitters don't pay attention to the guidelines.

One of my rejection letters thanked me for adhering to the guidelines. I thought it strange; after all, don't all new writers worry over whether they've got their submission absolutely right?

Apparently not, given the amount of pleas.

My question has to be why new authors wouldn't pay attention? Is it that they're out to gather the rejections slips for bragging rights? Are they so nervous they skimmed the guidelines? Or is it simply a case laziness?

Why send a sci-fi story to a fantasy magazine? They're not the same, nor is a fairy tale hard science fiction.

I shouldn't care about this. The more rejection of ill-advised submissions, the better are my chances since I'm rather anal about getting it right. If I'm going to be rejected, it will be on content, not layout or whether it fits the parametres. Okay, forget I said anything. Feel free to ignore the submission guidelines, and don't worry, I'll be happy to take your place.

I'm now going to match stories to magazines - I think I'll send out five initially, see how they go.

This and...that

Inspiration can come from anywhere... lucky for me!

So far, I've found inspiration in the California Wildfires, the program Future Weapons, a gardening program, Mythbusters and, though I'm loathe to admit it, Robert Mugabe.

These are widely different subjects, but when writing, everything has potential.

Take a weapon of the future. It looks so cool, has all sorts of new fangled technology and is accurate without the collateral damage we see in the wars of the past - and present. But what if we took that technology one step further? A genetically encoded snipers bullet with an integrated tracking system: no more misses or near-misses. A bomb that went exactly where you want it and not accidentally into a public market.

The garden? New poisons, plants that grow larger than expected through mutation, plants that heal one species but kill another (yeah, I know, there are probably squillions of plants that do that already, but I'm botanically-challenged, so it's new to me), sentient plants, and so on.

Mugabe? (ick) How to kill the s.o.b. or how to keep him in power - and the reasons why. Extrapolate to encompass a whole planet, or an end game. What would be the end result should his evil rule continue? A country without citizens? A country with distinct classes: the rich and the slaves?

And that's the good thing about being a writer. Inspiration can come from anywhere.

* * *

Twilight Fall by Lynn Viehl
So I read a few chapters and then wondered if perhaps Lynn was channelling Angela Knight so... descriptive and brash was the text. Like Evermore, some of the scenes are not for the faint-hearted, but it's only a small part of the plot. And what a plot it is.

I found the new elements intriguing - though they could have been foreshadowed in previous books (damn, I'll have to re-read the series to find out) - and entirely in keeping with Lynn's habit of dropping clues in the books that came before.

The ending is a corker! I didn't see it coming, and maybe I should have. After all what else could be appropriate (but I have my own ideas on that, which will remain unspoken).

I shan't go into the details, they remain the same for all the Darkyn: single human female is attracted to a vampire ("We are vrykolakas, not vampires.") Otherwise known as the Darkyn. The exception to this is Evermore. But each woman has something about her... something hinted at... that makes the change to Darkyn possible. In an ongoing plot line - something else that is given less importance in this book than the main plot, Alexandra Keller is searching for the answer.

Twilight Fall continues the story in a different way and opens all manner of possibilities, but it is still highly entertaining and leaves the reader fuming that it is January 2009 before the next book, Stay the Night comes out.

Sigh. Well, we can console ourselves with Omega Games, the next Stardoc which is on shelves next months. I really, really hope it's the first week of August. But in the meantime, I'll re-read the Darkyn. One, because I need to find the clues, and two, because it is a series worth reading over and over again.

Sucky

Well... the first story sucks. It always sucks as far as I'm concerned, but this is suckier than normal. I don't even know if it has any redeeming features.

The one I'm working on now reads more like an abbreviated book and I don't need that given the books I've already written and need to work on to send off.

Yep. The Muse is back in town and ready to rumble, demanding new stuff, ignoring works-in-progress and not caring a jot. That'll teach me let her out on her own.

I don't suppose it's a bad thing, either. After concentrating on so much other stuff, it's nice to get back to the fantasy worlds. And that's the thing. For the whole of May, while travelling, not one story idea popped into my head. Not. One. And I didn't notice!

That is scary in itself, but I still didn't pick up on it when I came home. Nope, just spent time showing off photos and compiling logical stuff into a database. For most of June, I've been doing this project and it's finally done, but still no ideas, even though I planned a month-long write-fest.

It's one of my worst nightmares to think my imagination might fail me, that years of hard work and the helpless need to write was... gone; stolen while I busy elsewhere. I trusted that ideas would always be there for me, that all I had to do was listen to a conversation, read a book, watch a TV program, or even stare at strange clouds and the spark would be there; the kernel of an idea would coalesce the bloom into thousands of words.

Now I know that not to be, quite, true. But it's like coming back from ill health or memory loss. I can't force it; I can only wait and give it a prod every now and then.

What I want to do is bring all that focus and concentration to bear to bring it all back, but all I get is fuzzy images and pauses. Great. Big. Pauses.

But now the Muse is back. And you want to know something? While writing this and the story, I realise I've finished the story. Everything a reader needs to know, or to assume, is done. Yes, it could be longer; yes, I can expand it, and yes, a reader would be pissy about coming to their own conclusions, but it's done. So maybe the malaise is passing.

I think I'll go read a book to find some inspiration.

For those of you in America, Happy Independence Day!

Outrageous assault

On the right to protest.

The Grand Inquisitor, aka the Pope, arrives in Australia for World Youth Day soon and the NSW Government has seen fit to slide in regulations preventing the local citizenry from ‘annoying or causing inconvenience’ to those involved.

Police have stated that ’organisations planning to campaign during World Youth Day events they need to have placards, banners and T-shirts pre-approved or risk losing their protest "rights" - even those groups representing victims of sexual abuse by Catholic priests.’

Under whose definition ‘annoying’ might be isn’t clear and thus paves the way for wholesale pandemonium. Why? Because Aussies don’t like laws that are petulant, disrespectful and unnecessary.

There’s also the caveat of shielding His Nibs from ‘things that might offend the Pontiff’s eyes’. What? The homeless? People abused by the Church? Poor fashion sense? A beautiful woman? How precious can he be?

And here I thought he was for all Christians, not just those who worship at his feet with glorious adulation.

Repugnant, draconian and unnecessary, critics say. President of the New South Wales Bar Association Anna Katzmann said on the ABC news service, “They are repugnant for two reasons. First of all the Government has by-passed the normal parliamentary scrutiny that would be available if they were introduced by an Act of Parliament. Secondly they are an unreasonable interference with people's freedom of speech and movement."
In the Sydney Morning Herald today, a poll lists 90 percent of voters as against the new laws – and I’m one of them.

Were does the government get off suggesting a law needs to be introduced to stop people from ‘annoying’ a select group of radical fundamentalists? If they’d done nothing, the populace would leave the Christians alone. Instead, anyone wearing a t-shirt or waving a banner deemed annoying can find themselves arrested and fined $5500!

To enforce the law, the local State Emergency Service and the Rural Fire Service have been empowered to detain those deemed causing an ‘annoyance’ to World Youth Day participants.

As a way to cause resentment, the law is outstanding; and provocative. Given the Aussie way of mocking those in authority (Australian troops in WWI were described as lacking in discipline for failing to salute superior British officers – one wag reportedly said: “when I see a superior officer, I’ll salute him!”) the result may well be mass protests and ‘annoying’ t-shirts.

There is nothing an Aussie likes more than taking the Mickey out of someone and there is no better target, nor one more deserving, than the Church.

Here's an example of what might be considered 'annoying' in a t-shirt:

(The t-shirt reads: The Pope touched me - curving over a map of Australia - Down Under - with a finger pointing up to South Australia.)

It’s all even more outrageous when you consider the people of New South Wales handed over $95 million dollars for the event, that there will be unprecedented road closures, that the Sydney racing industry had to be moved to allow the Pontiff and his followers space and will lose money hand over fist because of it, that Catholic paraphernalia will adorn public places, that the transport system will be gummed up by obsequious youngsters and that the law covers about 600 spots around Sydney.

So… who, exactly, is being inconvenienced and annoyed here? Why, everyone in Sydney!

There is no reason to afford the Pontiff special treatment, because he ain’t special. There is no reason to shield the man from the realities of everyday life here in Australia. There is no reason to offend the majority of the population. There is no reason to annoy or inconvenience us.

And there is absolutely no reason to introduce regulations that infringe on a person’s legitimate right to protest.

To quote Dom Knight from his blog: …there are few things more annoying than a law that says you can't annoy people.

As far as I'm concerned, if you don't like our laid-back ways, our occasionally irreverent humour, our welcoming ways: stay in Rome with the sycophants.

Right brain, left brain

I'm feeling slightly schizophrenic. I've been working so long on logical stuff - this database - that the creative side is pouting. It's as if that side is still on holiday - not much daydreaming going on at all, so yeah, definitely pouting.

I've all but crossed off the database on my 'to do' list - with minor variations, it's done. Next - and I'm thankful for the time constraint - is my story-a-day marathon, starting tomorrow. I figure I can write in the morning and then catch up on some reading in the afternoon. I'm so far behind, it will take me another month to catch up, and I still have books on the way - including Lynn Viehl's new one, Twilight Fall. I absolutely cannot miss or delay that one.

I finally feel as if I'm catching up on the stuff I missed while away; and the... alienated feeling is passing too. Must have something to do with getting back into the groove.

This marathon should kick the muse into gear and once I soothe her ruffled feathers, we have other projects to finish (but sshh I don't wanna let her know just yet how much work is involved. She might want to go back to drinking those Margaritas, winking at young men lasciviously, telling rude jokes and generally raising hell...

Wat up?

While I've been posting my journal, I've also been working on a major database for the community group I'm involved with; and that's not quite done yet.

It's months of work, but I'm down to the last comparison charts. As I complete it, I'd like to say 'talk amongst yourselves', but I'm fed up with it all. My maths skills aren't the best, so I've had to do it all the long, arduous way to find the data conflicts. The comparison charts will take up extra time and effort and I'm not sure how to do it.

I have until the end of June - my deadline, nobody else's - because come July, I'm doing a self-imposed story-a-day-marathon. I missed the official one in May, but that doesn't mean I can do it. Also on the agenda is the story over on the other blog, posting stuff on Scribd, sending out work and sorting the eight hundred or so photographs I took while touring. So much to do, so little time...

In the meantime, it's back to the grindstone. Damn. I wanna read a book!

The long road home

The morning just didn't work for me. I had packed my mini-torch into the computer bag – from whence it came – and put the computer bag into the car. Ergo, I could not see in the morning to check the time because the curtains were closed and the room too dark.

I had to either take the risk that it was unspeakably early and get up, or wait for one of the alarms to go off. I waited for an alarm, then bounded out of bed. I had arranged my clothes the previous night, so I figured I was guaranteed to get to the bathroom first – there are, after all, six of us in the room. Success! I smugly snuck into the bathroom with my gear.

Sadly, I was near the end of my shower when I realised I had failed to pick up and bring in my towel. So much for the smug. I turned off the water and drip dried for a while before using the floor mat. It got rid of the worst of the water.

In near darkness, back in the room, I combed my hair and slapped some moisturiser on my face, while County Cork number one made a dash for the bathroom, thus neatly denying me the opportunity to clean my teeth.

I headed down for breakfast instead, only to find that it would not be open for another half an hour. Fine. I checked the e-mail instead. Nothing new or urgent. I signed out and looked in on the news instead. I also chatted to the woman behind the counter, pointed out Tara and Newgrange on the map so she knew where it was for other travellers.

Finally, the breakfast room opened and a crowd formed. The toaster disappeared three slices of bread as I watched. It's one of those conveyor belt jobs, but when the toast eased over the edge, it failed to drop down into the tray. No sign of any of the pieces.

As I had breakfast, various room mates came down; all except the French girl who has, for the past three days, avoided us as much as possible.

Teeth cleaned, gear packed, we trooped downstairs. I directed the girls upstairs at the parking station while I dealt with the fee. That evil sod charged me €24 for the privilege; yesterday it was €12, the day before €9! I think the scabby dog is running a scam, since I had the big backpack with me. Now I have that much less to spend on useful stuff.

The girls directed me to the bus station, which I think took longer than for them to walk, but saved them the energy. Once safely deposited, I took off for the airport. The car was due back at 9.00 am; I got there at about 10.30, having gone to the wrong spot and taken the long way around to the airport.

But, no late charge or nuffink.

Now, I can have coffee, charge up the phone and computer. I've already read the local paper and I have books available to read, music to listen to and games to play on the laptop. Better yet, Mickey d's doesn't close until midnight and opens again at 4.30 am. So it's all good.

29-31 May 2008: First up, some coffee. There's a cafe with power points under the tables, so I happily sat and worked on the family tree. After a couple of hours, I packed up and wandered around, pushing my luggage on a trolley. I watched the planes take off; had a Kilkenny with a plan to come back for a Harp. That didn't happen, the pub closed too early. Now that I think about it, I spent a lot of time wandering around, watching Sky News or Eurosport, watched people. But the one thing I didn't do is read a book. I read newspapers, but no books and I had plenty.

Though the night wore on, I didn't feel tired until about two am. I had a half hour catnap, but the cleaners came around and shifted everybody. Of course, all the good bench seats had already been taken, so it was more wandering, more watching tv and waiting for Starbucks to reopen.

The airport slowly came awake with the arrival of passengers for the early flights. Finally, 4.30 came around and I booked my luggage all the way through to Sydney. Time to check out the duty free! While stuff was cheaper than the shops, it wasn't that much cheaper, so I thought I'd wait for Paris.

The flight to Paris took an hour and a half. No kipping there – the guy in the seat in front of me snored like a Whoopie Cushion. At Paris, duty free took a back seat to finding the departure lounge. The flight from Dublin landed at one end of terminal three; departure was from the far side of terminal one. It required talking to information and getting a train! Once there, I saw that the flight to Kuala Lumpur was boarding. No chance of duty-free.

It took nearly three-quarters of an hour to get on board, most of that standing in line to go through the customs point. I got pulled out of line.

"Madame, (I love it when they say ‘mahdahm’ with a French accent) is this your bag?" The custom's agent asked.

"Yes."

"We must open it to take a look, yes?"

"Okay, where would you like to start?"

"Where ever you like."

So I opened the back part." She stuck her hand in and rummaged around, then indicated the front portion.

I unzipped it.

"You have something in there." She said, "That we cannot see through. A tin, yes?"

A tin. A tin? Oh! I gave her a smile. "Coffee." I pulled out the tin. "Italian coffee bought here in France." I handed it to her and she opened the top, saw the unbroken seal.

"This is good." She gave me the coffee and a genuine smile. "Have a good trip."
So I got to keep my coffee, but I suspect only because it was unopened. Drug couriers use coffee to throw customs dogs off because they can't scent drugs through the aroma of coffee.

The Air Malaysia flight had personal media stations. Since I was wide awake, I saw a few movies: Jumper, The Golden Compass and National Treasure. Then there were the tv programs: CSI, Cold Case, Numbers.

Flying over the Caspian Sea coast was another revelation. The world from 40,000 feet is an amazing sight. Dark rivers etched into pale land, patchwork fields in shades of green, grey and tan, vast tracts of baked ochre desert. The sun set and towns began to sparkle. To say 'jewels in the darkness' sounds a little trite, but flying over India (I waved as we flew over Afghanistan and Kabul) the lights of the towns and cities glowed like intricately engraved silver/grey brooches, glittering under a rising crescent moon.

Towards morning, I watched out the window, saw red clouds. I couldn't work out what caused it. Fires from forest clearing for farmland? The light didn't flicker, but stayed steady. The plane turned and the view was lost to me. About fifteen minutes later, the plane turned again, but the red was gone, replaced by stark black outlines and dark cream. Once I readjusted my thoughts, I realised the sun was rising and this was the pre-dawn light. What I was looking at were storm clouds, outlined by the growing light.

The plane landed in tropical gloom. My eyes suddenly felt gritty from lack of sleep, but I picked up my gear and got off the plane. A shot of Starbucks coffee and I cruised the duty free, purchasing this and that. I had a couple of hours before the flight to Sydney and walked around. If I sat down, I'd probably fall asleep.

Finally, the call went out for the flight. At customs, I explained the coffee so I wouldn't have to unpack everything. They didn't seem all that interested and off I went.

My seat was at the bulkhead in the centre. Yay! In two seats were a husband, wife and baby with a spare between. Surprisingly, the baby didn't cry the whole trip, but slept or entertained himself by staring at the personal media unit… or me. Mine didn't work, but I kept cat napping for a while and finally went to sleep for about three hours.

When I awoke, we were flying over Australia and my excitement grew. No more sleep for me. I spent the last few hours watching the flight board; the one that gives you all the statistics and has a map so you can follow where the plane is.
I didn't see the city from the air, but with enormous relief, the plane touched down. I was up and out of my seat in short order (after the plane came to a complete stop and the seat belt light went out, of course).

Again, I explained the coffee, the chocolates and that I'd been to a medieval village in Wales to customs. We chatted for a while on the initiative to bring back the old breeds of animals – the agent was a member of a medievalist society and was interested in my experience. He finally let me go and I stepped outside into the fragrant, clear and unpolluted night air of Sydney.

After nearly two days without proper sleep, when I got to the hotel I had a shower, some food and fell asleep, not to wake until eight the next morning; ten hours sleep.
The next morning, I took a train home – the final three hours of travel – spent in a kind of fugue state, watching and comparing the countryside to what I'd seen and satisfied, comforted by the eucalypts, the wattles and the bush.

It's good to be home.

Me, the tourist

Dublin: This morning it rained; for only the second time I'm using my jacket. I eschewed breakfast in the hostel for something more filling: a Boxty breakfast. Sausages, bacon, pancake and egg with a side order of potato cake. It was delish and just the thing to have before the Guinness tour. And… since it was still fairly early, I kicked back with the local free newspaper Metro while chowing down on breakfast.

The river Liffey, on a suitably bleak and rainy day.

Of course, yet again I headed out without a really good look at the map, but as long as I stayed in the left lane, I was pretty sure I'd find it. And so I did. I parked the car and wandered to the entrance – the long way, of course. If I'd gone right instead of left, I'd have only had to go about a hundred metres around the side of the building.

The tour itself was fascinating. It went into the history of transport for the Guinness – the ships and barges, the carts pulled by horses and trucks - the construction of the Guinness brewing complex and of the barrels needed for the stuff. At one time, 300 carpenters were employed to build the barrels (otherwise known as 'firkins', which made me smile since Firkin is a surname connected to our family tree).

There are small museums dedicated to both, including models of the ships, and the actual tools used in the barrel-making process. Though the tour is self-guided, there are arrows directing you and interesting short documentaries describing and showing the processes of Guinness making. It uses four ingredients, but the making is remarkably complex.

At the end of the tour, and at the top of the building, a free pint of Guinness awaits and the bar has a three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of Dublin. There are also inscriptions beneath the windows pointing out the highlights of the city with a quote from a famous Irish work. As it was raining, most of the city shivered under a grey shroud.

This is my Guinness, perfectly poured, sitting on the bar, just waiting to be enjoyed.

From there it was over to Trinity College to see the Book of Kells. I wandered around the shop, looked for things to buy, but it's all so damned expensive. Entry price to the book was €8 and I talked myself out of going in.

Outside, I argued with myself. There I was, at Trinity College, Dublin! How could I not see the book? Because it was a religious icon representing the death of the old religions in Ireland. But it's not just about Christianity in Ireland, now is it? It's about the art work, the process of writing and drawing, the history of the thing and it's survival for twelve hundred years. It was the antique value of the book that convinced me.

It looks old - is old - carefully displayed in a humidity-controlled environment and under dim lights. The colours have faded somewhat, but there is still a vibrancy. The Book of Kells isn't the only book on display. There are others, equally spectacular, equally as old and carefully wrought. The area is kept in subdued lighting – no photography allowed – and you can imagine a tonsured monk, clad in rough-hewn brown robes and sitting at a tilted wooden bench, carefully dipping the quill tip into brilliant blue, subdued mauve, sunny yellow, soot black and painstakingly transcribing the words onto a fresh sheet of vellum. No mistakes allowed, or the page has to be redone.

A part of the entry fee was to see the old library, upstairs. The scent of books hits you as soon as you step into the sixty-foot room. On either side, shelves of leather-bound books - some with red ribbons - rise to an arched ceiling, all of it built of dark wood. The precious tomes are cordoned off by rope. No touching the antiques, plebs.

Trinity College. Bottom floor - The Book of Kells. Top floor, the fabulous library.

At each archway is a marble bust of important people: Socrates, Milton, Burke, Bacon, Aristotle… People who made a difference throughout history. Down the centre, more medieval books are displayed in glass cases; they’re similar to the Book of Kells, but not necessarily religious. Some are medical, others, philosophy, science and education. Well worth it for those who appreciate books. Of course, no photographs allowed!

After that, it was time to do some touristy shopping and I bought t-shirts and scarves. If I'd bothered to check what I'd already bought, I might have modified my shopping! At the very least, I'd have bought an Irish shirt for myself!

The tourist Mecca of Temple Bar. Here, if you're not careful, you can pay too much for food and beer; and be tagged by pickpockets - those suckers are everywhere!

For dinner, I had an excellent freshly made sweet chilli beef wrap – from a takeaway, I'm over the restaurants - followed by a Hot Chocolate at the Haagen Daaz stand. That drink was something special, especially on a chilly evening. I nearly ordered a second one to go; but that’s just plain greedy.

Now, I'm repacking everything for tomorrow. One of the County Cork girls quizzed me on family tree research, dividing my focus. Once she'd gone, the Canadians came in from their run and more chatting ensued. I offered to take them to the bus station tomorrow, since they seemed to have some luggage. As a consequence, I may have packed successfully, but I also mis-packed stuff... though I didn't know at the time.

Ancient, hallowed grounds

Ireland: today is monuments day. I plan to track down Tara. After that, well there are options. Curiously enough, when I asked the Irish people here where it was, they confessed they didn't know and had never seen it. This, the Heart of Ireland, the Ancient Seat of Irish Kings! I was appalled.

I took off anyway – typically, in the wrong direction. I pulled over at Summerhill, posted a post card and checked the map. Low and behold, there Tara was marked along with Newgrange, a Neolithic burial site. Actually finding it proved more difficult than the map suggested. The lanes are narrow and unmarked. Eventually, I pulled over again, took a couple of photos of a ruined abbey and asked a man walking his dog for directions.

The Stone of Destiny, Tara.

"Left, then right, then left, then right. You can't miss it." He said. And he was right. I came over the hill and the carpark was right there. I had driven the back route to Tara. The wind was rising, but I walked up and all over the grass covered mounds, snapping photos of the surrounding areas and of the monument. I managed to take the photos without the church in them. To me, the church represents and insult to the seat of the Irish kings, a monument to cruelty and generations of abuse and oppression perpetrated on the Irish people.

At the visitor's store, the attendant pointed me to Newgrange, gave me a map. Postcards in pocket, map in hand, off I went. The directions were clear and twenty-five minutes later, just as she said, I pulled into the carpark of Newgrange.

While I would have been happy to see just this monument, there was a two for one including Knowth, the largest Neolithic burial mound/village in Europe. Both monuments were fascinating, cleverly built and reeked of antiquity – even in the chilly gale force winds.

I climbed to the top of Knowth and studied the surrounding countryside. You can see the trees that hide Tara in one direction, and in an almost straight line through Knowth to the ridge beyond, the hill St Patrick allegedly climbed to light the Solstice fire days before the event, thus desecrating the Druids’ sacred ground and beginning the end to pagan ways in Ireland. You can also see the River Boyne, where William of Orange defeated the Catholics. An event still celebrated by the Marching Season.

At Newgrange, I stood in the bitter wind and waited to go inside. It’s cramped and narrow inside. The tour guide broke our group into two, sent one group around the site, and set us to await the malingerers. I tell you, the colder it got, the longer the group before us took to come out. In the end, our tour guide must have felt the chill too because she got them out in a hurry.

The entrance to Newgrange. The Solstice sunrise come3s through the top hole. Inside, you walk up a slight incline, thus, you can't see the sun through the bottom entrance.

Once inside, it’s amazing. Again, no photos allowed, but my hands twitched around the camera.

The tour guide turned off the lights and it was as if blind. Then, she demonstrated what the interior would be like at sunrise on Solstice with a dull red light. We all watched the light creep down the centre of the tunnel. A remarkable achievement by the Neoliths to get the line of light absolutely right.

Chilled to the bone and tired, I made my way back to the hostel via the N2 without the benefit of the map. I only had to go around the block once to get to the carpark. Sometimes, things just work.

As I promised myself, I had a hotdog. Not that special, but it meant I didn't need to take any more money out. Tomorrow is the 'last' day I can take the money, some for the day, some for Wednesday and some for duty free.

I've a plan for three things tomorrow: The Book of Kells at Trinity College - which isn't far from here - the Guinness Tour and the Jameson Whisky tour – that should do me for tours, and then go to tourist store just around the corner from here for some cheap Irish souvenirs.

"Not all who wander are lost"

Dublin: I took the scenic route down to Dublin; via Ballynahinch. Before I left Belfast, I looked up our surname in the phone book. They were supposed to be all over the place, but... I found less than twenty in the Belfast/County Down area – not a good sign. As it turned out, there were none in Ballynahinch.

Interestingly, my research at the Public Records Office suggest Ballymacarn; I had a thought that my grandfather may have used Ballynahinch as the closest significant township since William and Martin are listed as farmers. I also think the name is dying out in County Down and the Belfast region.

So, I went to the Presbyterian church and the first gravestone is for Thomas and family. I took a photo and wandered around some more. The Kers are there – Martin rented from them – and a couple of Reas – my great-grandmother’s family. It bears a closer look, especially since I have a few books to look through. From Ballynahinch, I took the coast road that included the stunning Newcastle and the Mountains of Mourne.


With bare hills (no doubt snow-covered in Winter) and rugged coastline, it's almost my idea location. Needless to say, it took longer to get to Dublin than from Dublin to Belfast, since I just had to pause and admire the views of both coast and mountains; and the occasional castle ruin.



Dublin is a crazy traffic city, but instincts – and we sometimes have to trust them – took me to a car park. There are no free car parks in the city, which is a real pain. I found myself at a church – Dublin Cathedral, I think, and they directed me to a hostel. They, at least, would know where Abegail's was. As I waited at a pedestrian crossing an evil scrote of a gypsy tried to get to my wallet. She managed to unzip my backpack five inches before I realised. With an evil eye in her direction, I held the pack close to my front. I think she got my breath mints. From the other side of the road, and through a bus window, I saw the 'jovial' bunch, of which the woman was a part, nick a poor schmuck's wallet and move off before I could do anything about it. I'd barely been in the city an hour.

I found the hostel, and parking nearby. Once settled in the dorm with a couple of girls from British Columbia, I went down to Temple Bar, a restaurant/bar 'Square'. At the Quay restaurant, I had Irish Stew and a pint of Guinness. Guinness was great; the stew, well, my mother makes it better. The menu declared ‘traditional Irish food’, though I don't think spring rolls and crispy skinned chicken wings are considered Irish. Not cheap, but I can say I've had Irish stew in Ireland.

In the evening, I looked out the window and down into the alley below. There, a young man in a grey hoodie crouched over a flame. The match went out as I watched. He lit another, heated his fix then used the syringe. He lowered his pants and injected the stuff into the crease of his leg. He did, much to my surprise, clean the syringe out with water before packing up and leaving.

Later that night, someone set a plastic garbage hopper on fire. Choking smoke rose in the alley and wafted into the room. A couple of restaurant employees tried to put the fire out, but in the end called the fire department. It was nearly 11 pm.

I went back to bed. We’ve been joined in the room by two County Cork girls on their way to Africa and one from Nice, France on the way to an au pair job.

Only one complaint: The bed is rock hard!

Ancient and strange

Belfast: The conclusion to my foray at the Ulster Historical Society left me with few pounds. It's typical of me to spend money on books rather than essentials... like food. I have no more pounds to access, only Euros, and for that I have to be in Ireland, not Northern Ireland. What can a person do with fifteen pounds and a day and half? Well, I bought my three pound breakfast, then wandered off to the Queen's University.

Lovely old buildings, I managed to tag along with a group of Americans who'd turned up in a tour bus. Everything is so manicured, but the architecture is wonderful. I could easily imagine Dr Indiana Jones, sneaking out, or Harry Potter up in one of the rooms, staring forlornly out over the lawns... Of course, I have a lot more photos of the buildings and of the stained glass window inside.

Then I went to the botanic gardens. While most of flowers are yet to bloom or have passed their most beautiful, I took some photographs of some gorgeous emerging roses with names like Shot Silk, John Snow and Glendfiddich. I'm not really a flower person. I am, in fact, botanically-challenged, and can rarely remember the names of plants, but how can you forget a rose named after a rather tasty scotch?

Is this Glenfiddich Rose a fabulous colour or what?

The one thing I like about botanic gardens is that they are so relaxing. You can wander around, looking at the colour, admiring the bloom forms, or the foliage if there are no flowers. The only down side was that the Palm House was closed. It was built by the same guy who did Crystal Palace and is a miniature.

While wandering back to one of the gates, I noticed a shrub in a cage. Yes, a green-painted steel, double locked, fine-meshed, cage. On closer inspection, I knew what it was: the Woolamai Pine, currently the most exotic and oldest pine in the world. A gift, no doubt, from the Australian Government. Its discovery location is still a secret and there aren't many of them. This pine was around with the dinosaurs!

After taking a photo, I had the joy of stepping in squirrel poop. The offender chitted at me and bounded further away as if he'd said too much.

Of course, I could be wrong and the pine might be a recidivist escapee, now locked up. I did wonder if it would be released. These pines are highly sought after given their antiquity. Dinosaurs maybe snacked on these. It reminds me of the Huon Pine which can grow huge, slowly ages and a specimen can be over a thousand years old. Oh, and the wood? Smooth and silky. Ships were built out of them because there weren't any bugs around to chew on it.

Back on the street, I made my way down to City Hall and the spring carnival. Here, stalls were set up like a market around the Hall - which was closed for renovations. After having some well-deserved coffee, I walked around, checked what was there. For lunch, I had a traditional Hog on a Bap (bread roll) with softened apple sauce. Can you say yum? And that gave me an idea. I now had seven pounds left. I went to the Baker's stall and bought four potato farls (rolls), then to the cheesemonger for some smoked Dutch cheddar. I also purloined some sachets of sugar from one of the coffee stands and I still feel guilty about that.

On my way back to the hostel, I stopped in at Tesco's for milk, and yes, more sugar for my coffee. As an act of penance, I shall leave the sugar as a donation to the group basket for the hostel.

Okay, that is dinner done... except... I went to the off-licence across the road and spent a pleasant half hour talking to the owner about family history before purchasing a can of Guinness.

So, here I am, in the dining room with a nice cup of coffee. Mary Jane, one of my room buddies from the last two days had a suggestion for my accommodation problem on Wednesday: she suggested staying the night at the airport. The idea has merit. Why pay €87 for a room I'll only use for maybe twelve hours? I can cat nap until the flight leaves at 6.30. I'll be tired when I hit Paris, but hopefully that means I'll sleep most of the way to Kuala Lumpur.

Sometimes, you see the strangest things. I'm filling in a few gaps in the family tree database and there's a knock on the clear-glass fire door. Okay, I let the guys in. It's not until I'm sitting down again, with my glasses on that I realise the second man is wearing shorts, is mostly bare-chested, and is wearing a mankini. Pink. Over his shorts. As a statement, it's out there. Shame I left the camera upstairs.

I've also just found 20 Euro in my document folder... and no time to change it to pounds. Sigh

Slow day

Belfast: This morning, I had the soda bread with eggs, bacon and sausage; I love soda bread. Add a cup of coffee and that's breakfast for less than three pounds. Today is Public Records of Northern Ireland (PRONI) day so I gathered my information and took off. Two hours later... I finally found the public records office after stopping for directions.

Whether I gleaned some useful information, I don't know. The records aren't as easy to navigate as I would have liked. And some of the records I did manage to access were unreadable and faded. I do think I have some clues to investigate when I have more time. I spent most of the day there, so there's not much else to mention. It’s tough not to find what you’re looking for.

I did find a batch of Armstrongs in the Ballynahinch area from the 1901 Census. I'll need to sort them out, confirm how they're related before I call them ours. The oldest is Thomas at 89 and the census has him listed as the brother of a 56 year-old; I have some serious doubts about that. I did find some probate information on Martin, or 'a' Martin. It could William's father – the timing is right – and he left his assets to both Robert and John. Earlier that year, Jane also left her assets to John. What it all means, I don't know, I'll have to think and do more research.

It took less time to get back to the hostel – typical - and I spent time online booking more accommodation in Dublin. This is a long weekend, so booking ahead is paramount.

All I need do now is to book one last night. I think it will be the Days Inn. It has an airport shuttle, and if I'm flying out at 6.30, I'll need to get there obscenely bright and early. I still have days left to explore and more than half a tank of petrol.

Something to remember

Here's something my sister sent:

As I Mature

I've learned that you cannot make
someone love you. All you can do is
stalk them and hope they panic and give in.

I've learned that no matter how much I care,
some people are just assholes.

I've learned that it takes years
to build up trust, and it only takes
suspicion, not proof, to destroy it.

I've learned that you can get by
on charm for about fifteen minutes.
After that, you'd better have a big willy
or huge boobs.

I've learned that you shouldn't
compare yourself to others - they are
more screwed up than you think.

I've learned that you can keep vomiting
long after you think you're finished.

I've learned that we are responsible
for what we do, unless we are celebrities.

I've learned that regardless of
how hot and steamy a relationship is at
first, the passion fades, and there had better
be a lot of money to take its place!

I've learned that 99% of the time when
something isn't working in your house, one
of your kids did it.

I've learned that the people you care most
about in life are taken from you too soon
and all the less important ones just never go away.

Pass this along to 5 friends... trust me, they'll appreciate it. Who knows, maybe something good will happen.

If not... tough shit.

More roaming

Before I continue with the journal, I'm gonna wish my twin happy birthday. Also, a happy birthday to my youngest sister and her son for yesterday and to my niece for tomorrow. We're all another year... okay, let's not say that and just say we did.

To continue...

Ireland/Belfast: I swear, money is just running through my fingers like water! I turned up at Cardiff airport and handed over the keys to the car. At the check-in counter for the flight, I got pinged twenty-seven pounds for excess weight. Twenty-seven pounds, as in $55 Aussie dollars! And it could have been worse, but the check-in lady took pity on me.

Once it was taken care of, we all lined up, went down a tunnel and down some stairs to outside. On the tarmac, I had to shudder at the sight of a puddle jumper. I mean, the plane had propellers! I didn't think prop planes were in use any more. Thankfully, it was a short flight - with me watching the propellers and for suitable landing areas, of which... there were none.

In a light rain, we landed at Dublin. The good thing about having excess baggage and taking time to sort it out, is that my luggage was packed last, so it was the first out. Hah!

I noticed a Eurocar hire counter and wandered over. It wasn't the right place (I was supposed to go to Landsdowne Road for my car), but the offer of a vehicle still stood. With ill-grace the woman sorted it all out for me and handed over the keys - or keycard in this instance.

Wow. I expected a little Micro, or a Ford Focus; what I got was a sleek, black, six-cylinder, six-speed, Renault Laguna! I had to check to make sure this was the car I was supposed to have. The man said 'yes'. Too cool. Off I went, heading for Belfast in the flash car. It only took an hour and a half. It took a little longer to find a parking spot and find out where the International Youth Hostel was.

Once booked into the IYH and with the car safely stowed in a secured parking area, I went off in search of the Ulster Historical Society. I had a map, so I didn't get lost; it merely took me longer to get there than I expected. I finally found the place, went upstairs with my knees aching and wandered in to the office area. "We're closed." A woman said. "In fact, I was just waiting for my husband."

The man looked over expectantly and asked what I was after. I don’t think he had the opportunity to speak to people interested in the Society, especially those from a distant land. He wandered around the office, checking boxes and bookcases, occasionally picking up some information. He asked about my historical society and Australia as he did.

Half an hour later and arms full of books and two discs with more information, I thanked him and wandered out again. In my backpack, I now had over a hundred pounds worth of information bought for forty pounds. Can't get a better bargain than that. He also had some useful advice for the Public Records Office.

Yeah, I dripped smug on the way down the stairs. As the outside door locked behind me, I realised I'd left my map upstairs – and there was no way back in. Smug evaporated. I retraced my steps to the IYH from memory(!) and found myself on streets unknown. In the travel booklet I had, I finally walked onto the map. I checked off the streets and slowly walked across to where I was supposed to be. The area I wandered through wasn't the best.

By the time I got back to the hostel, my feet and knees were giving me what for. I put my loot in the car. I figured it was time for a cleansing ale and asked the... fellow behind the counter if the pub across the street was okay - you just don't know in Belfast. He said it was A Working Man's pub, like that, as if I should know what that meant. I simply asked him again if it was okay, and he made the same reply. Obviously, he was trying to say something, but I didn't get it. I asked if he knew of a suitable pub and he directed me down town.

As far as I can figure out, a Working Man's Pub is for the locals and where they discuss politics. Not wanting to cause any 'trouble', I slowly walked to the city centre and had a Guinness at a genuine Irish Pub. Beautiful. Both the pub and the ale.